Yuletide Cheer
by Feral Phoenix
Summary: Nessiah only ever wanted one thing for Yule, and never expected to get it. But because Milanor is always trying to be helpful, somehow Nessiah has wound up with a lot more than he wished for... :melodrama, crack threesome. happy holidays!:


Yuletide Cheer

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Yggdra Union. I own fandom, and the ferocious desire for January to get its butt over here yesterday so the PSP version can come out already. Because Pamela! And Mistel-neechan!! And Bly-sensei!!! And 367-chan! And, and, and!! (FLAILS)

Yule.

It was Milanor's absolute favorite holiday; nothing else ever came close to matching it. The celebration, the cheer of it; the togetherness. The gift-giving. The gift-_getting._ The partying. Really, there was nothing like coming in out of blinding blizzards and picturesque but still subzero snowscapes to crackling logs, pine and holly decorations, and nice hot food. There was _nothing _that compared. But still…

This year, Milanor decided firmly as he looked around the crowded, firelit room, the party was most definitely lacking.

Maybe it was just because he'd happened to fall in with a group of compatriots who liked to stay this side of the law, if only just. And the fact that about half of their company was underage, according to whichever country they belonged to. And _every _other aspect of the party was perfect, it was just—what kind of Yule bash _was _it without any good booze?!

Milanor might've grown up in the lawless back end of nowhere, but said lawless back end of nowhere was Fantasinian territory. He wouldn't be considered an adult, legally able to marry, own large amounts of land, or drink, for another year yet. And he wasn't the type to overindulge in alcohol, which he considered to be stupid. But this was a party, for heaven's sake! At every Yule party he'd ever been to since he was old enough to see over a bar counter, there'd at the very least been spiced mead available for whoever wanted any. But what did they have here?

Eggnog.

_Eggnog. _Pints and pints of milk and cream in barrels, each with roughly two fingers of rum mixed in. It was _pathetic. _Half the point of a good Yule was getting half-drunk, so you'd have the good time you wouldn't have dared if you'd been completely sober! Without any real drinks, there'd be no contests, no stupid bets, no silly dance lines… no entertainment!

Well, Yggdra _was_ the boss and all, and _she'd _been against people getting slammed here, but… sometimes a man had to take it into his own hands. Milanor wasn't _disobeying, _not really. It was for the sake of their friends' enjoyment, so he was sure all would be forgiven in the end.

Milanor took a quick glance around, then looked down at the clear bottle of vodka in his hands. And grinned maniacally. He'd filched the stuff from the kitchens, where he'd heard the cook remarking that it was ordinarily almost as strong as brandy and guaranteed to make even the most resistant a bit tipsy. Eavesdropping was a ridiculously fun and very informative pastime, and like any good kleptomaniac, Milanor had very sticky fingers. He deemed this just the thing to perk up the celebrations a bit.

"Trust me, you'll be thankin' me later—if not right away," Milanor quipped gleefully, twisting the cap off the bottle and waiting in the shadows until the coast was clear before evenly distributing the contents between every barrel, bowl, and pitcher in sight.

His self-appointed task complete, Milanor edged back out of view in order to find a good place to hide the evidence. As soon as that was done, he'd sample a bit of his concoction and sit back until the fun started.

---

_The next morning_

It took a while for real consciousness to return when Nessiah woke, and during that time, he became aware of a few things. First, that it was officially the Yule sabbot today; second, that while he was tired and his hips ached, he was warm and comfortable where he lay and didn't want to move; third, that he wasn't entirely sure where he was and didn't know how he'd gotten here; finally, that his head was pounding worse than any migraine he'd ever suffered.

And once that consciousness was fully there, the only observation the brilliant mind behind the Gran Centurio and roughly seventy percent of all Fantasinian wars could make was the obvious statement of, _Hangover._

It wasn't wise of him, but that hadn't stopped him from doing foolish things in the past: Nessiah gritted his teeth, set his shoulders until they trembled, and honed down on his magic to set his sight spells in place. It made his head hurt about twice as badly, and as his arcane "eyes" opened, the images around him were fuzzy and swaying, but Nessiah didn't like being unable to see. It was a weakness, and he relied too heavily on his magic to compensate for his physical blindness, but while he'd mostly lost the abject terror that had used to assault him in the absolute darkness, it still made him nervous.

In his state, it'd take a while until he was stable enough to adjust the spell, so Nessiah lay very still and stared up at the slightly swaying ceiling, and tried to think.

The hangover was obvious, undeniable, and a monster bitch. He'd have to find Russell's wife, the cleric Flone, and beg her for one of her foul head-clearing concoctions or he'd go half-crazy before long. But although it was there, Nessiah didn't understand why in the hell he had one.

As a rule, he didn't _get _drunk. It was unseemly, shameful, and dangerous for someone usually in the middle of some grand manipulative scheme or another. Liquor loosened the tongue, and he had too many secrets he didn't want accidentally spilled. He drank—for social functions—if there happened to be a fine wine or champagne to sample, but never much, and always stopped if he could tell he was getting anywhere near inebriated. And he knew how much he could handle, damn it—he was _careful, _knowing that although he was chronologically the oldest living thing walking the human world, his physical body wasn't mature enough to take a booze binge without some form of damage.

There'd been a party last night, but there hadn't been any alcohol available, at request of Fantasinia's new seventeen-year-old queen. It would've been too easy for the younger members of her circle to get hold of some, after all. But about halfway through the party was where Nessiah's memories stopped dead.

_So either whoever was in charge of the eggnog put in way too much rum, or someone spiked what I was drinking, _Nessiah thought wryly. _Damn them. I'm going to _hurt _whoever set this up._

And with that, he nudged the edges of his spell until his vision cleared, then turned lightly to his right when he noticed a slight pressure on his fingers.

Nessiah's heart jolted a little in his chest, then worry and remorse fell quick on the heels of the surprise as he found himself almost nose-to-nose with Roswell of Branthese.

The young necromancer was still asleep, lying curled on his side scant inches from Nessiah. The fingers of his right hand were lightly folded at his lips, and those of his left had a loose grip on Nessiah's. His long, silken ash-brown hair was disheveled, with tufts tracing delicate patterns over his forehead, cheek, and shoulder. He was a little paler than usual, but there were the remnants of a slight flush crossing his face, and—Nessiah felt his insides drop a little, although he'd had a feeling—since the heavy comforter on the bed didn't fall all the way to the mattress between them, it was easy to tell that Roswell was completely naked.

_Gods._ Mortification and guilt almost had Nessiah gently untangling his fingers from his friend's, lifting Roswell's arm off his chains, and stroking his face, waking him to apologize. They'd never been intimate this way when magic hadn't demanded it of them; they were _friends, _not lovers. But Nessiah knew just how badly alcohol affected Roswell, and if _he _was feeling whatever they'd drank even now, Roswell would be violently ill once awakened.

_Another _good reason to hurt whoever had set them up for this. Damn it, damn it, _damn _it. How could he and Roswell not have noticed if someone had put something strong enough in their drinks for something like _this _to happen? While he personally had enough bad karma to merit payback in the form of the hangover from hell, Nessiah wouldn't tolerate the fact that Roswell had wound up hurt by this, too. How had it _come _to this? Damn it, neither of them was anywhere near the lascivious-drunken-sex-for-no-reason type!

But then—Nessiah tried to think, although it was making his headache a lot worse. Roswell wasn't without his own share of emotional damage; if he was inebriated enough and had latched on to _Nessiah _when both their defenses were down…

If only he could remember what had actually happened, maybe it would be less awkward when Roswell woke. But between the alcohol and the headache and the _exhaustion, _Nessiah just couldn't manage to get at what memories there were. He didn't want to think; he didn't want to be awake or aware—since Roswell was still asleep, maybe it would be better to just sink back into the gentle arms encircling his body and…

—wait.

His sense of dread and disbelief growing stronger by the minute, Nessiah just lay there and let the realization sink in.

He was so warm and comfortable not only because the heavy bedclothes were still draped over his body from just below his shoulders, not only because Roswell was so near and they'd apparently gotten quite a bit of enjoyment out of the past night, but because he was lying skin to skin with _someone else._

Someone else whose chest was warm against Nessiah's scarred back, and defined enough that the fallen angel could tell that he was resting against toned muscle. Someone else whose arm still curled lazily, possessively over Nessiah's waist—an arm which, Nessiah observed, was covered in long, jagged scars from the vulnerable part of the wrist to the inside of the elbow.

_Oh, _gods, _no._

But although his insides clutched with turbulent emotion that tumbled straight from the brief flutter of lust to the outright weight of sheer horror at the very thought, he still turned, peeking over his shoulder as though compelled.

Much like Roswell, Gulcasa was still deeply asleep, his expression so even that you would've thought he hadn't a care in the world. If he was lucky, he'd stay that way for a while—Nessiah knew from experience that although his own soldiers tended to give him a good ribbing about it, Gulcasa had never touched a drop of alcohol in his life before now. He'd still be underage for several months, and since he was the Emperor, he'd always considered that it was his job to set an example for his people.

Which, of course, could mean that once he woke he'd be just as hard hit as either of his unexpected bedmates. And that would only add to the shock, disgust, horror, and likely incomprehension he'd already feel.

Nessiah just lay there, wondering how in the hell he'd managed to botch the past night quite this badly. Gulcasa and Roswell would _never _forgive him for this.

It was true that he'd always wanted Gulcasa, but—he'd also always known that _getting _him would be worse than never having him at all.

Carefully, Nessiah lifted Gulcasa's arm from his side, scooting forwards a bit to set it down undisturbed between them; still asleep, Gulcasa made a face and turned, shifting to his other side. Sparing his friend a pained smile, he delicately extricated Roswell's fingers from his and pulled his chains out from beneath the young necromancer's wrist. Making sure not to disturb either of them, Nessiah edged back and sat up, first leaning against the wood headboard, then finding it far too cold against his scarred back and leaning forward instead, resting his arms on his knees and burying his face in them.

Maybe out of sheer misery, his head was pounding worse than ever, and he was starting to feel slightly nauseous. The dull ache in his hips had spread to his lower back, and the muscles in his legs were stiff and protested his every movement. _Damn it. _He curled up a little tighter, his throat tightening. _If this had to happen at all—why did it have to happen like this?_

And as if in answer, brief little flickers of memory began to light the void of the past night.

_Looking down the counter from him into turquoise eyes glassy with drink. Desperate kisses in a dark hall, impatient hands fighting with his clothing until they rested on skin, the pressure of their hips as their bodies clutched close together—a pressure that hurt even as it felt good, so very very good._

Nessiah shivered a little and bit down on a low hiss of irritation with himself.

_Feeling the quiver in his chest that he couldn't quite put a name to as rough hands slid from his shoulders to his hips and rested there, as he watched Roswell uncertainly and two voices told him in tandem that it would be alright. Roswell's patient expression as he clutched those gentle hands tightly, his nails digging in as he gave a sharp shallow gasp because it hurt, it hurt, it hurt—_

_Roswell's low sobs, and the ragged edge of Gulcasa's breathing. Watching his simulated sight blur at the edges, dangerously close to breaking, desperately trying to hold himself together. Realizing that between the helplessness of utter surrender and the dark pleasure of mastery, there was no way he could. Exhilaration._

_Euphoria._

There was nothing else—nothing other than a vaguely erotic blur of tangled, drunken memories—but that was more than enough. Nessiah curled a little tighter and continued to shake slightly, feeling his face burn with shame as he locked his thighs together. How _could _he have even—? With two of his _closest friends—_it was despicable, really. No matter what he'd wanted, or how badly. And if a little drink had been enough to destroy his ability to consider how _they _felt… more the fool him, but that also meant he was now morally obligated to find out _who the hell had set them up._

And horribly maim the bastard. At the very least.

"…" Sheets rustled to Nessiah's left, making him flinch, his thoughts freezing. "…ugh. Oh, _G—"_ And the voice halted, annoyance and pain trailing away. Nessiah imagined that Gulcasa's mind was running the same track his own had not too long ago.

The bedsprings creaked as Gulcasa sat up, swearing bitterly; Nessiah risked a glance sideways to see that he had his head in his hands and his shoulders set so fiercely his muscles were shaking. Before he could turn away again in guilt, Gulcasa sat back and looked right at him.

Nessiah flinched, and belatedly pulled the sheets up in a weak attempt to cover his naked hips. And wanted to just crawl into a corner and die as Gulcasa's eyes flicked from him to Roswell and back, and then again.

"Oh, _fuck." _This Gulcasa said in a very small, very brittle voice as he looked away, his face dead ashen, wearing that awkward half-smile half-grimace of someone in a situation he wanted to, but couldn't, escape.

There was a long silence.

"Do you remember—" Nessiah ventured softly.

"Not much," Gulcasa replied with a shaky sigh. "Enough, though."

More silence.

"State of alliance or no, when I find whatever asinine son of a _bitch _it was that slipped us alcohol, I'm going to kill him. Horribly. And I really hope you'll reanimate him for a little while so I can try out several variations of the same," Gulcasa said in a very tight voice on the thin line between panic and fury. "I did not want to get introduced to alcohol like this. And if I _had _to lose my virginity in this fashion, I would have preferred to be able to _remember _the event clearly."

Nessiah suddenly found himself feeling about ten times worse.

Another ear-wrenching crunch of springs alerted him to the fact that Gulcasa had gotten up. Nessiah didn't look; he instead sat very still, looking at his hands, as he listened to Gulcasa running along his list of favorite expletives as he gathered up clothes and pulled them on. He _wanted _to turn and look, wanted to spend a few minutes being self-indulgent and admiring the lines of Gulcasa's body. But he refused to allow himself—he'd done enough damage with his _wants _already.

"Here." Nessiah flinched again, then looked up to find that Gulcasa was holding out his thin underrobe. "It's cold—put this on if you're not going to lie back down."

Hesitantly, Nessiah accepted it. "Um. Th-thank you." He glanced around self-consciously, not sure whether to turn his back in order to hide his hips or stay faced forward to keep Gulcasa from looking at his ugly scars. Seeming to notice this, Gulcasa turned around and sat on the edge of the bed, not even saying one word. His ready understanding and acceptance put a little glow in Nessiah's chest—one that was as painful as it was warm. Feeling even worse, Nessiah carefully slipped into his robe with a little shiver.

"Ggh…" Gulcasa's hiss was as venomous as it was pained. "My head is fucking _killing _me…"

"I-I'm sorry," Nessiah managed, feeling miserable and pathetic.

"Mnh?" When Gulcasa turned around, his brow was creased with confusion. "What have _you_ got to be sorry for? This is my hangover; it's not your fault."

"It's just—as the oldest here—I should've been more responsible and not let this sort of thing—" Nessiah cast about desperately for better words, and couldn't find them. Everything hurt far too much for that. "I'm sorry. All this—I…"

"Hey, hold on just a…" Gulcasa reached out and laid a hand on Nessiah's shoulder. "You're not honestly telling me you think _all _this is exclusively your fault? Give me a break. If there's one thing I _do _remember, it's that _that _is most definitely _not _the case."

"But neither of us can really be—" Nessiah began to protest. He fell silent, however, at the muted moan from his right side, sinking dread spreading through his chest again: Roswell was awake.

Gulcasa and Nessiah exchanged panicked stares—Roswell's inability to handle alcohol was practically _legend—_and then turned back towards him, Nessiah lightly resting his hand on Roswell's shoulder and Gulcasa staying where he was, though he continued to watch anxiously.

"…nnh…"

"Roswell? Roswell, try not to move too much. You're not in the best state right now…" Nessiah kept his voice at a stage whisper, not entirely sure whether Roswell would be hit with sensitivity to sound along with the usual photophobia and draining physical sickness.

"Nessiah…" Roswell opened slightly bloodshot eyes dark with torment. "…Gulcasa." He didn't look all that surprised to see either of them there, Nessiah noted with confusion. "You two are… you're not too badly off?"

"No," Gulcasa answered for the both of them, apparently taking his cue from Nessiah and keeping his voice low. "We'll survive a little headache, don't worry. But—the way you're talking…"

"You remember what happened last night? _Everything _that happened last night?" Nessiah asked, the narrow blade doubly edged with hope and trepidation sliding into his chest and making his heart skip a beat.

Roswell closed his eyes again and gave a tacit little sigh. "…Yes."

"Then how did all this—?!" Nessiah's voice cracked on the last two words, and Gulcasa's just shook through the entire sentence, as they demanded it in unison.

A soft crease folded Roswell's brow as a pretty flush spread over his too-pale face. "Trust me… if you don't remember it yourselves, you don't want to."

"…" Feeling his face _burn _all the way up to his ears, Nessiah just glanced back at Gulcasa helplessly and kept his silence.

They just sat there awkwardly until Roswell's face slowly drained of color and he curled up, folding his arms over his belly. "…ugh…"

"You don't look so…" Gulcasa began, but Nessiah was already gently but insistently pulling Roswell into a sitting position, coaxing him towards the edge of the bed.

"Gulcasa—get the door—please?" Nessiah managed, slipping Roswell's arm over his shoulders and dragging him to his feet. From the other side of the bed, Gulcasa took off running, traveling a wide circle around Nessiah and Roswell's ungainly stride to the privy, briefly arguing with the doorknob before holding it open for them.

They barely made it in time, but they made it nonetheless. Sprawling heavily to his knees and dragging Nessiah down with him, Roswell hunched over the privy and was desperately ill. Nessiah braced him with an arm around his waist and his free hand at Roswell's shoulder, while Gulcasa knelt on his other side and held his hair back. It took the space of several minutes for Roswell's sickness to abate, and a few moments longer for him to stop heaving. Once he'd stayed still for a while, head down and shaking but no longer faintly green in the face, Gulcasa let his hair fall.

"Do you think you're done?" he asked softly.

Roswell gave a weak cough and a weaker nod.

Gulcasa stood, looked around until he found the tap, and headed over to it, picking up a pewter mug sitting on the counter. He filled it, then returned to where Nessiah and Roswell were sitting, holding it out.

"Drink this—but slowly, or you won't be able to keep it down."

Roswell accepted it with a quiet murmur of thanks and did as he was told. Still supporting him, Nessiah smiled a little, then turned up to Gulcasa and let his lips quirk invitingly, a gesture he'd picked up in placement of raising his eyebrows (even if he could, no one would be able to see it beneath his faceplate).

"As I believe I've said before, you pick up a few things when you have little sisters," Gulcasa said, smiling that smile that made his golden eyes go so soft they almost seemed light brown. "There's not much more I can do, though—we need Flone to take a look at you. And don't try to protest, because you need professional attention."

Roswell set the mug down on the floor and brushed the back of his hand over his lips. "…I have more sense than that," he rasped tiredly.

"Hmph." Gulcasa's smile widened subtly. "Then that gives you more sense than both Nessa and I put together. Here…" And just like that, he swept Roswell into his arms, cradling him like a bride. Nessiah stood slowly, winced as his already aching body protested the movement, and followed as Gulcasa walked Roswell back into the bedroom, moving in graceful waltzing steps. Because his movements were slower and easier, they would cause Roswell a great deal less disorientation and nausea—it was a sweet gesture, one that made Nessiah smile even as the sight of his best friend carrying Roswell naked to the bed caused a tiny, irrational stab of mild jealousy in his heart. Very carefully, Gulcasa set Roswell down on the mattress, then gathered up the bedclothes and pulled them up to his shoulders.

"Don't move, and rest as much as you can—go back to sleep if it's at all possible. Nessiah—unless he needs to throw up again, don't let him get up. I'll get Flone and bring her up here." He laid his hand on Roswell's shoulder in a gesture of farewell, then turned back towards Nessiah, tousling his hair and then letting his fingers slide down the side of his face, tracing the contours of his cheek gently. "Once Flone gets to work, then we'll talk."

Sighing a little, Nessiah leaned wistfully into Gulcasa's palm. "Alright. Just… be back soon. Please. I'm… going to worry if you're late."

"I won't get lost," Gulcasa said flippantly, rolling his eyes, and headed to the door, closing it firmly behind him.

"He says, when he's possessed of the worst sense of direction of anyone I've ever known," Nessiah murmured under his breath, then looked around helplessly and sat down next to Roswell, watching the young necromancer breathe. His face was still ashen, but traces of color were beginning to return to his skin.

"…I'm sorry, Roswell," he said quietly, reaching out to tease a strand of hair away from his friend's face. "This should never have happened."

Roswell just smiled, keeping his eyes closed. "Don't apologize on my behalf… we all got ourselves into this mess. I should've realized sooner that we were drinking hard liquor… by the time I did, though, the damage was done."

"You say that, but if Rosary ever hears about this, she'll have our heads—particularly yours, when this wasn't any of your own doing," Nessiah replied wryly, letting out a light groan as he leaned back against the headboard, resting his cheek against the carved wood. "She's hurt you enough already, and she'll be even less likely to believe that you love her and only her…"

"She won't hear of it." Roswell sounded certain and entirely unconcerned. "I can keep a secret as well as you, and if Gulcasa and Flone weren't capable of discretion, they wouldn't be able to hold their positions."

"I suppose, but…" Nessiah just sighed.

"You of all people shouldn't have any regrets about the past night," Roswell chided.

"I didn't want this to happen at _all, _let alone like this."

"Heh…" Roswell shivered a little, but smiled. "You know where my feelings lie, and you know I've never done anything quite this unorthodox before, so… I hope you'll believe me when I tell you last night was good."

Nessiah felt his face heating up again, and he glanced down at Roswell a little shyly. "…You really think?"

"Being with the two of you was a beautiful experience." Roswell was silent for a while, then he opened his eyes halfway, giving Nessiah a faint, sad smile. "If circumstances were different between us… and we didn't have these feelings for other people… I still think we would be well-matched lovers."

"If is a painful word. When possibilities are closed, they shouldn't be spoken of," Nessiah told him firmly. "I've seen enough of them go by to know that much, young one." He put as much finality into the statement as he could.

Roswell just shook his head minutely and closed his eyes on a gentle laugh. "…My dear Nessiah." The words sounded like a reprimand, but Nessiah did his best to ignore it as the two of them lapsed into silence.

---

Gulcasa had been searching fruitlessly for about ten minutes, his hangover-born migraine worsening with every step, when he decided he was fed up, growled, and resolved to just ask the next person he came across.

The next corner he turned put him in view of Yggdra's second in command, the uncivilized thief boy Milanor, stretched out in a window seat.

Already irritated—he and Milanor didn't always get along; it was hard to like someone who was cruel to one of your closest friends—Gulcasa made a face and headed over to the thief, stopping right next to him and folding his arms. "Hey."

Milanor opened one eye to see who it was and then closed it. "What."

"Do you know where I can find Russell or Flone?"

Milanor grunted, a sound that said he wasn't fully awake and didn't want to be. "Why?"

"Roswell," Gulcasa said simply. "He's in a bad way, and he needs to get looked at. Nessiah's with him now—I didn't want to leave him alone—but he's got to have a real healer. Someone must've spiked what he was drinking, because he's got a worse hangover than any I've ever seen."

"Oh." Milanor made a face—almost guiltily, Gulcasa noted suspiciously—and sat up, opening his eyes and crossing his arms behind his head. "I think they're downstairs, then. They've been busy, though. Seems like lots of people were partyin' a bit too hard last night."

"Indeed." Gulcasa narrowed his eyes. "If you know anything about this, you will tell me, now. I'm already sworn to punish whoever it was that hurt Roswell so recklessly." He drew his thumb across his throat fiercely in the universal gesture signifying execution to underscore his words.

Milanor blanched a little, then blushed defensively. "I don' know nothin'! Stop lookin' at me like you're tryin' to pick a fight, willya?"

Gulcasa let a predatory smirk cross his face and leaned in, keeping his voice low and controlled as the smirk spread into a sneer. "For your sake, I hope you're not lying, carrion cur. Nessiah and I have a few new combat techniques we've been wanting to try out on someone lately…"

"Tch…" Milanor glared back, but made no other reply. Satisfied for the moment, Gulcasa straightened up and headed for the nearest stairs that led down into the castle basement, where the mess hall and most of the bars were located.

He spotted Russell and Flone almost immediately—they were sitting at a table by themselves, discussing something with serious expressions. Neither of them looked hung over; Gulcasa was a little relieved by that fact, for more reasons than one.

"Would either of you mind if I joined you?" he asked as he drew close; both Russell and Flone looked up at him, surprised, as he drew up an extra chair and set its back up against the side of the table, straddling the seat and resting his arms over the arched wood. "I apologize for bothering you like this, but there's a favor I need to ask."

"You, too?" Russell groaned and facepalmed. "How many people got _hit _by that stupid prank? We've been getting hangover complaints all morning…"

Gulcasa raised his eyebrows. "So, it _wasn't _just us… what happened?"

"It seems as though someone snuck strong alcohol into the eggnog," Flone explained. "It has to have been something fairly tasteless, instead of brandy or beer, because so few people noticed it until it was too late to keep almost everyone from getting drunk. We were fine, thankfully—Russell doesn't really like eggnog, and as for me… I'm still watching what I drink." She laid her hand on the gentle swell of her belly to illustrate.

"Is that so." Gulcasa rested his chin on the heel of his hand, looking at Flone appraisingly. "I do hope you're not too tired to see to one more patient, then. I was going to wait to address myself in any case—I can live with a headache until you've time to spare—but Roswell can't wait. He's in a truly pitiful state right now, and if he's not seen to soon…"

"…I see…" Flone pushed her chair back and stood up. "If it's really that bad, of course I have no problem taking a look at him. Russell, please wait for me awhile." She leaned over to kiss his cheek as he smiled and nodded to her, then looked at Gulcasa expectantly.

"Thank you." Gesturing for her to follow, he began to head back towards the stairs. "There's only one other thing I have to ask…"

"What would that be?" Flone said with a smile.

"Please don't discuss this with anyone. The circumstances are… a little difficult," Gulcasa decided, running a hand through his hair.

---

Nessiah looked up when the door opened again and Gulcasa led Flone inside before closing it behind them. The blush he'd finally banished began to creep back into his face as the cleric looked around the room with upraised eyebrows, taking in Nessiah's overrobe and Roswell's clothes scattered across the floor.

"I see what you mean about the circumstances being difficult," she said at last, then crossed the room delicately as Nessiah stood up and took a few steps back. Roswell had gone back to sleep after a while, and he didn't stir when Flone felt his forehead and then laid two fingers to the side of his throat to measure his pulse and chakras. "…Oh, dear… he really _is _in bad shape. He's even worse off than the Queen. I'll do what I can to make this easier on him, but he'll still have to wait out some of this."

"We understand," Gulcasa told her. "We'll make sure someone stays with him until he's feeling better. Now—Nessiah, we need to continue our discussion from before, so the two of us will step outside for a moment. We'll be nearby." He nodded to Flone and opened the door again, looking at Nessiah expectantly.

Actually feeling his heart start to sink, Nessiah gathered up his overrobe and headed over to Gulcasa's side as he pulled it on, following him into the hall.

"I'm… sorry," he said again, not looking up at Gulcasa as the two of them made their way to an out-of-the-way corridor.

"Don't. If anything, I'm the one who needs to apologize to _you," _Gulcasa told him in a gentle concerned tone.

"What do you… mean?" Finally, Nessiah glanced up to see that Gulcasa was standing with his hands in his pockets and a sober, worried expression.

"I really don't remember much about last night, but—the one clear memory I _do _have? It gives me the feeling that I might've pushed you into something you weren't ready for," Gulcasa explained.

"Wha…?" Before Nessiah could ask, Gulcasa reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"When things started getting more… involved, shall we say… you got hesitant," Gulcasa said softly, patiently. "And more than that—you were afraid. Really scared—almost on the edge of panic. You were crying."

The cold fingers of memory brushed against Nessiah's heart, trying to revive specters he'd tried his hardest to keep locked away, and he shuddered automatically.

"There's still a great deal concerning yourself that you haven't told me—or anyone else, except maybe Kylier—but one thing that's definitely become clear is that someone hurt you once," Gulcasa went on. "Probably a long time ago, but badly enough, deeply enough, that you still carry those scars to this day. The trauma's still so strong that even now you're not in the state where you can take being sexually submissive. And I realized that, but it didn't stop me from nudging you into it anyway. I can only ask you to forgive me for that, even though it's not something that should be forgiven."

"…Gulcasa…" Nessiah wasn't sure what he was supposed to say.

"Whoever did this did it indiscriminately, and we're not the only ones who were hurt," Gulcasa said at length. "Still, whatever it was we got slipped seriously damaged our judgment. It's a coward who blames drink for everything, and I am willing to still take responsibility for what I did, but—this is all wrong. What happened between us—moved too quickly by far. This was not how these things were meant to be."

"…Meant…" Nessiah echoed a little shyly.

"Well…" Gulcasa cocked his head a shade to the side, and moved his hand from Nessiah's shoulder to his cheek. "For one thing, if something were to start between us, I would've rather set it off with something like this…"

It was too sudden for Nessiah to do anything. It seemed as though one second Gulcasa was standing at arm's length, and then the next, their lips were sealed together.

Along with the ability to understand and his sanity, Nessiah seemed to have misplaced his willpower somewhere. Because he couldn't pull away—the only thing in his power was complete and utter surrender, as he wound his fingers into Gulcasa's shirtfront and tried hard to accustom himself to the warm firm press of his friend's lips on his own.

_I'm… I'm actually doing this. I'm really… I'm kissing Gulcasa—the man I've had feelings for almost as long as I've known him!—and I'm not drunk and I'm not dreaming._

As the thought continued to echo in his mind, Gulcasa's mouth shifted a little on his own, a slight questioning movement. Overwhelmed and still trying to gather his wits back from the four winds, Nessiah shivered a little and hesitantly let his lips part, yielding uncertainly. Slowly and gently, Gulcasa deepened their kiss.

Nessiah's breath caught, and he started to tremble, his heartbeat quickening and a nervous flutter starting in his belly. This wasn't the first time he'd kissed or been kissed like this, but it was the first time it had scared him. There was absolutely nothing demanding in Gulcasa's touch—to the contrary, it was more of an offer—but the light brush of tongue and the heat between them had hold of something deep inside him and it wasn't letting go. Lust clutched his insides tight, had him gripping Gulcasa's shirt tighter and tighter until he felt his nails pressing into his palms through the fabric. _Oh fuck, I want him, I want him now, I want him to touch me, I want him inside me—_

But the sickly memory of that night on the sand—and worse, the agony and cruelty of _that person's _hands—flashed through his head, and the sheer physical _need _coupled with the old horror and had sweat starting to stand out on his skin as panic rose in his throat.

Then the next moment, Gulcasa pulled back, and paused for a moment with their lips just brushing as he looked at Nessiah through half-closed eyes before he straightened up.

Still quaking, Nessiah let go of Gulcasa's shirt and put his hands to his chest, badly shaken, trying to remember how to breathe.

"You're not ready," Gulcasa said simply. "Still… I'll be here when you are."

"…You don't want to do this," Nessiah whispered, his voice cracking. "Gulcasa, you—you deserve better; a life with me isn't going to be a happy one. There are too many reasons—this, this… whatever it is between us can't _be."_

"That may be true, but it's not for you to decide," Gulcasa told him, putting his hands on his hips stubbornly. "My heart is mine to give to whomever I please—as yours belongs to you. Now… we'd best be getting back, and make sure we're there to hear what else we can do for Roswell."

Nessiah hesitated, then nodded. When Gulcasa offered a hand, he took it and squeezed it hard while they walked back in silence.

If there was anything in the way they stood or their appearance that would've told Flone what they'd been doing, she didn't comment on it. She just nodded to them when they came back in, and let them know that Roswell would probably sleep for a few more hours, and while he would still be in a delicate condition when he woke, it wouldn't be nearly as bad.

Once she was gone, Nessiah turned away from Gulcasa uncertainly, then let go of his hand and began to walk towards the bed.

"I'm… I should probably sleep for awhile, too. There are a lot of things… we need to consider, and… I'm too tired to really think right now; my head hurts."

"Go ahead," Gulcasa told him. "I'll look after you both. And when you're feeling better, we can find someone else to babysit Roswell so we can go messily murder Milanor."

"It was him, then? …I can't say I'm altogether surprised…" With a sigh, Nessiah got up on the bed and curled up next to Roswell, lightly kissing his forehead. "…You were right, you know," he said in a whisper too low for Gulcasa to hear. "So, thank you… for everything."

Resettling himself, Nessiah relaxed his sight spells into a soft blur and waited for sleep to return to him.

**Owari.**


End file.
